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Also by Anne Easter Smith
A Rose for the Crown

Daughter of York
The King’s Grace

Q u e en by R ight
Anne Easter Smith
A Touchstone Book
Published by Simon & Schuster
New York London Toronto Sydney

Touchstone
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New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Anne Easter Smith
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form
whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department,
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Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Easter Smith, Anne.
Queen by right / Anne Easter Smith.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references.
1. York, Cecily, Duchess of, 1415–1495—Fiction. 2. Richard, Duke of York, 1411–1460—
Fiction. 3. York, House of—Fiction. 4. Great Britain—History—Lancaster and York,
1399–1485—Fiction. 5. Great Britain—History—Wars of the Roses, 1455–1485—Fiction.
6. Great Britain—History—House of York, 1461–1485—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3605.A84Q44 2011
813'.6—dc22
2011006027
ISBN 978-1-4165-5047-1
ISBN 978-1-4516-0822-9 (ebook)

For my sister Jill,
another courageous and fiercely loyal woman

Contents
Acknowledgments ix
Dramatis Personae xi
The Plantagenets from 1377 xiv
The Nevilles xvi
England and France in the Early Fifteenth Century xviii
Baynard’s Castle, London (Prologue) 1

Part One 5
Part Two 79
Part Three 177
Part Four 277
Part Five 321
Part Six 389
Epilogue 459
Author’s Note 485

Glossary 491

Baynard’s Castle, London
Februa ry 8, 1461
A scream pierced Cecily’s dreamless sleep. She came awake in an instant as

every mother might upon hearing her child in distress.
“Margaret,” she muttered into the gloom of her curtained comfort and then
called to her attendant to light a taper. Her daughter’s sobbing made Cecily
bark a little more impatiently: “Hurry, Gresilde, Lady Margaret is having an-
other of her nightmares.” Hardly noticing the cold of the February night air,
she pulled her velvet bedrobe around her, tucked her feet into matching slip-
pers, and flung aside the heavy bed curtain. Dame Gresilde Boyvile held the
taper aloft and lit her mistress’s way along the draughty corridor to Margaret’s
chamber.
The servants shushing the distraught girl in the bed immediately fell to
their knees in obeisance to the duchess of York as she swept in, her long
sleeves trailing across the Turkey carpet.
“Margaret, my dearest child,” Cecily clucked, seating herself on the feather
mattress and gathering her fourteen-year-old daughter into her arms. “’Twas
but a dream. Calm yourself, I beg of you.” She thanked the ladies for their so-
licitation before drawing the curtains around her and Margaret.
“I dreamed of Micklegate again!” Margaret sobbed. “A terrible, ghastly
dream. Why does it not go away?”
Margaret did not have to describe her nightmare. Her mother knew exactly
what grisly scene the girl had conjured up.
Cecily’s husband, Richard, and her sweet son, Edmund, had met their
death five weeks ago at Wakefield, not far from Sandal Castle, where they and
the Yorkist army were keeping Christmas. They had not expected the king’s
forces to come so soon nor to attack in the holy season, but it seems they were
surprised, outnumbered, and Richard lost his life on the battlefield. Edmund,
poor seventeen-year-old Edmund, Cecily grieved, was cut down in cold blood

2 An n e East e r Sm i t h
while attempting to flee the field. Lord Clifford had found him hiding under a
bridge and, crying vengeance for his own father’s death at St. Albans, had slit
the lad’s throat while his soldiers held him down. Her gentle, second-oldest
son—a tall, good-looking charmer like his elder brother Edward—was no
more, and his head, together with those of Richard and her favorite brother,
the earl of Salisbury, were set atop the city of York’s Micklegate on the orders
of Queen Margaret. It was that hideous image that haunted young Meg night
after night.
“Oh, why did they have to die?” Margaret sobbed.
Cecily tightened her hold on Margaret, inhaled the rosemary sweetness
of the girl’s long, fair hair, and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She had not
wanted to believe the messenger’s tale of disaster. It had all happened so far
away and, without physical proof, she could not grasp the reality of it. Her
Richard beaten, killed, beheaded? Impossible. He had been part of her life
since she was eight, and she could not imagine life without him.
“Oh, my dearest love . . .” she murmured.
She was unaware that she had spoken aloud until she felt Margaret gently
pull away to study her. Cecily held herself erect, her face resuming the inscru-
table expression she had learned to affect when in the public eye. But it was
harder now after Wakefield.
“I am truly sorry, Mother,” Margaret whispered. “I was only thinking of my
own anguish.” Her intelligent gray eyes searched her mother’s still lovely face
for forgiveness and some uncharacteristic show of emotion.
Cecily was moved and tears threatened. Don’t cry, Cis, she told herself. This
is not the time to cry. You must be strong for the children and strong for all
the others who have given their service—and now their lives—to Richard’s
cause.
“You thought I had a heart of stone? Nay! I must tell you that my loss is
so great I feel my heart is shattered in shards that pierce my skin and make
me want to scream in agony.” She pressed her hand to her heart and groaned.
Then she raised her sad eyes to Margaret’s face and took the girl’s trembling
chin between her fingers. “You know why your father and your brother died,
my child. They died to right a wrong done to our house, and your father knew
full well the price we all might have to pay. ’Tis the price all those born of
royal blood are in danger of paying. You too must learn to sacrifice for your
family whether it be the house of York or that of the man you wed. I will tell
you now, Margaret, that as a woman born to a noble house, you may have your

Q ue e n by Ri gh t 3
share of happiness, but you will also know great heartache, for we are at the
mercy of our menfolk. We must accept God’s will and bear it with dignity
worthy of our name. Learn this now and well. You must learn how to bridle
those feelings I see welling up in you every day. ’Tis what I have done these
thirty years as duchess of York.” She bent and kissed Margaret’s face, smiling
at her daughter’s astonishment. “Aye, Meg, I have as passionate a nature as
you”—she tapped her breast—“but I have kept it to myself in here . . . except
when I was with your father.” She chuckled. “I confess I was a handful when I
was your age.”
Meg smiled, and Cecily pulled her into her arms again. “You will always
have solace in prayer, my dear. Our Blessed Mary, saint of all women, is always
there to listen.” The two women clung to each other for a few moments be-
fore they slid to their knees on the floor and made their supplications to the
Virgin. Then Cecily tucked Meg into bed and padded wearily back to her own
chamber.
Gresilde had thoughtfully placed a hot stone in the bed, and Cecily hugged
its smooth warmth to her, curling herself into a ball and willing herself to
sleep. Instead, the effort she had made for Margaret and the familiar position
of childhood released all her pent-up despair, and her tears soon soaked her
pillow. She put out her hand and felt the cold, empty place between the sheets
where her husband should have been lying, and the ache in her heart became a
violent pain. For a month she had maintained the demeanor of a noblewoman
whose nickname—Proud Cis—had been well earned in the past few tumultu-
ous years, but at that moment with her defenses finally breached, she allowed
the flood of tears to spill unheeded and her thoughts to return to that golden
autumn when Richard had come riding into her life.
She managed to smile then through her sniffling: Nay, she corrected herself,
’twas I who rode into his.

PA R T O N E
“A gracious lady!
What is her name, I thee pray tell me?”
“Dame Cecille, sir.”
“Whose daughter was she?”
“Of the Earl of Westmorland, I trowe the youngest,
And yet grace fortuned her to be the highest.”
FROM A F IF TEENTH-CENT URY BA LLA D,

ANONY MOUS

1
Raby, Durham, 1423
F aster, Father!” Cecily called to the rider on a handsome roan courser be-
side her. Her bright green liripipe streamed out behind her as father and
daughter cantered across the parkland that surrounded Raby Castle and made
for the forest beyond. A falconer and two grooms accompanied them along
with several eager hunting dogs, held firmly in control by fewterers.
Ralph Neville, earl of Westmorland and sixth Baron Raby, grinned as he
watched his youngest daughter lean over her horse’s neck and urge the beast
into a full gallop. The sight of her in the saddle never failed to give him pride;
she was only eight years old and yet she could ride better than either of his
younger sons, perhaps because he had taken it upon himself to teach her.
“Spare the birch and spoil the child,” his wife, Joan Beaufort, had recently
chided him, but Ralph had merely chuckled, twitched his drooping moustache
and told her: “My dear lady, I have sired more than a score of children in my
sixty years, and my hair has been rendered gray by many of them. I beg you to
allow me in my dotage to indulge myself as a father with this enchanting child
of ours. I fear you will bear me no more, and so I shall do as I please with Cec-
ily.” And with that, he had bent over and given her such a smacking kiss on her
upturned mouth that Joan did not have the heart to press the matter further.
Instead, she stroked his weathered cheek, saying, “You are incorrigible, my
lord,” and then straightened her cumbersome headdress.
Digging her heels into the horse’s flanks and letting it have its head, Cecily
willed her mount to cover the ground as if being chased by a demon. Ralph
had taught her to ride like a man, defying all convention and amusing the
many grooms who peopled the earl’s ample stables. The first time Cecily had
appeared in what looked like peasant braies, Joan, the youngest child of the
great prince John of Gaunt, had thrown up her hands in horror and quoted:

“ ‘A woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a
man put on a woman’s garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the
Lord thy God.’ Do you not remember your scriptures, my lord? Have you no
fear for Cecily’s immortal soul?”
Cecily had looked from one parent to the other, dismay written on her
face, but Ralph had dismissed his wife’s objection, claiming that the verse did
not apply to children. He picked up his daughter and carried her through the
vaulted passageway to the stables hard by the Clifford Tower. Trusting her fa-
ther in everything, Cecily had pushed a tiny fear to the back of her mind, but
she had asked God’s forgiveness that night—and every time she rode out in
her braies—nonetheless.
The day was crisp, and the leaves had turned russet and gold on the huge
oaks, ash, and elms that dotted the park and canopied the forest. Just before
crossing the Staindrop road to continue into the woods, they saw a small
group of riders trotting up from the village toward them. Ralph reined in his
horse when he recognized the falcon and fetterlock badge of the lead outrider
and called out a warning to Cecily that he was stopping. But her horse had
other ideas, and instead of obeying her tug at the reins, it wheeled around and
began to head for the horsemen. Using all her strength, she finally succeeded
in reining it in but not before it reared up, pawed the air, and came to a stand-
still a bare three feet from a youth astride a palfrey.
“Whoa, Tansy!” Cecily cried sternly enough, but then reached down to
stroke and soothe the horse’s neck. “Forgive me, sir,” she addressed the aston-
ished boy with the confidence of one who knew her place as an earl’s daughter.
“Something must have alarmed her. I trust she did not frighten you.”
“Cecily, apologize to our guests at once!” Ralph’s admonition as he rode up
to join them made her hang her head. “This is not the most comfortable of
meetings, my lord duke,” he said, addressing the youth with a slight bow, and,
leaning out of his saddle, he took hold of Cecily’s rein. “I must beg your indul-
gence. This is my youngest unmarried, the lady Cecily Neville, who is usually
in more control of her mount. You must think we are naught but ill-mannered
clodhoppers hereabouts.” He grinned down at the young man from his large
roan.
But twelve-year-old Richard Plantagenet had forgotten about manners for
a second, and he stared at the small figure he had taken for a boy. Cecily stared
right back. When Ralph chuckled, Richard made a hasty bow. “My lord of
Westmorland, I am at your service.”

Ralph turned to the older man in charge of the party. “Sir Robert, you
are right welcome to Raby.” He maneuvered his horse so that he was beside
Waterton, leaving Richard and Cecily to fall in behind them. “You have made
good time.”
“Lady Cecily, I give you God’s greeting,” Richard murmured politely by way
of an introduction, and then he remembered to answer her. “I was not afraid
just now, in truth. You ride well—for your age.” He almost said “for a girl” but
something in the toss of her head made him think better of it. She rode up to
join her father.
“Shall we not hunt today, Father?” she asked quietly, so that Waterton could
not hear her. “You promised.”
Ralph’s eyebrows snapped together. “Certes, we shall not hunt, Daughter.
We have guests. Sir Robert Waterton and I have business to attend to in the
matter of my wardship of Lord Richard.”
“Wardship? Another one! Why have you not told me of this, Father?” a dis-
appointed Cecily muttered to him, as the little cavalcade trotted back toward
the castle. “Are we all to share you and Mother with him as well as the others?”
“Your mother will explain, Cecily. But for now, I pray you, be charitable,”
he said sternly. “’Tis certain your brothers will make Lord Richard more wel-
come, at least. He was orphaned by the time he was four and has no family to
speak of, except for a sister.”
“Oh,” Cecily murmured. Turning around, she looked with pity at the slight
rider, his over-large bonnet almost covering his slate-gray eyes. “How sad.”
With nine brothers and sisters and several half siblings, she could not conceive
of being so alone. She wondered where his sister had been sent and murmured
a prayer heavenward for the girl to be as fortunate as Richard in her enforced
placement at a stranger’s hearth.
Cecily saw that Richard was impressed by the many crenellated towers
that graced Raby Castle. The towering stone barbican’s portcullis was un-
needed in this peaceful corner of England. Raby was not on the major road
to the border with Scotland, unlike the earl’s principal seat of Brancepeth a
dozen miles away.
Cecily was too young to remember the only armed men to be seen at
Raby during her lifetime—other than her father’s guard—those who had
left the castle to fight with Henry of Monmouth in France. She had been
born just before that young king’s thrilling victory at Agincourt. Who could
have guessed that only seven years later, in his mid-thirties, the fifth King

Henry—affectionately dubbed Good King Harry by his subjects—would be

dead of the bloody flux? He had only just done his duty by his royal French
bride, Catherine. He had sired an heir nine months before his death, which
had “set the cat among the pigeons,” Cecily had heard her father say. A child
king would mean a regent and in‑fighting, Ralph had explained, “and who will
now maintain our renewed hold on France?”
“Do you always dress that way?” Richard said to Cecily, catching up with her
as they rode through the gatehouse and into the busy outer bailey. “I thought
you were a boy. I have not seen a girl in man’s garb before.” Cecily bristled as he
continued, “I thought ’twas against God’s laws.” He did not wait for an answer
but threaded his way deftly through the throng of yeomen, stewards, grooms,
and squires going about their tasks and then dismounted with practiced ease.
Cecily frowned, reminded of her mother’s remark. But she loved the free-
dom the braies gave her, and she had often secretly wished she had been born
a boy. She called out in defiance to the young duke, “Have no fear, my lord.
You will see me in a gown within the hour.” As if he were still in doubt, she
removed her chaperon to show off her golden hair. Once freed, it spilled over
her shoulders and down her back. The transformation made him smile for
the first time, and Cecily liked the way his eyes crinkled up. She decided she
might make friends with him after all.
“Shall I see you at supper, my lord?” Cecily asked, and seeing Richard nod,
she skipped off up the newel stair to her own chamber high in the keep.
Cecily did not see Richard again for a week, and when she did bump into
him on her way to the stables, he was engaged in swordplay with her thirteen-
year-old brother, George. Judging from the laughter and good-natured ban-
tering from the other young would-be squires in the care of the experienced
master of henchmen, John Beckwith, Richard was fitting in without difficulty.
George was a formidable opponent, but it was clear that Richard had already
received good instruction in the use of the small stick sword and was gaining
ground despite his slighter stature. Cecily waved as Richard sprang out of the
way of George’s lunge, and he was momentarily distracted, allowing George to
thrust his wooden weapon right at the heart.
“Aha!” George mocked, encouraging the others to tease the embarrassed
Richard. “I see you already have an eye for a pretty girl, Dickon!” He swung
around to face his sister. “Have a care, Cis. Doing what you did could be the
death of a man one day,” he admonished her.

Cecily’s smile faded into a pout. She hated George scolding her, which
wasn’t very often, as he had adored his baby sister from the day she was born.
He was her favorite brother, and she strove to win his approval.
“A pox on you, George!” she retorted, close to tears. Avoiding Richard’s
gaze, she turned toward the passageway that led to the stable yard.
Feeling sorry for her, Richard said loudly, “I should thank your sister if I
were you, George. She saved you from a certain drubbing!” The other youths
roared with laughter, and it was George’s turn to redden.
Cecily’s heart warmed to this newcomer, and she walked off with her head
held high.
Seated on a footstool near her mother, Cecily watched intently as Joan

showed her an intricate embroidery stitch on a piece of linen covered with
Cecily’s previous attempts to learn the skill. She was proud that her mother
thought she was old enough to move from the basic and boring chain stitch
into making knots and loops that would one day form intricate designs.
On the other side of Joan sat Cecily’s twelve-year-old sister Anne, her pale
blue eyes alternately lowered to her sewing and watching Cecily receive all the
attention from their mother. She appeared to be a model child—never speak-
ing out of turn, never causing her nurse or tutor trouble, and always seeking the
approbation of her elders—but once out of adult view, Anne guarded a jealous
heart and a spiteful tongue, and she resented her father’s favoring of Cecily.
When Cecily found a toad in their shared bed a few years ago, she knew it was
Anne who had put it there; when her favorite bonnet went missing, she knew
Anne was responsible but said nothing—not even when Anne pretended to
come upon it unawares folded inside Cecily’s second-best gown and was praised
for her diligence. The two sisters dutifully said their nightly prayers side by side,
but when the nurse had tucked them in and snuffed out the candle, there were
no shared giggles or secrets. Each turned on her side and went to sleep.
Earlier that summer, when Anne was contracted in marriage by proxy to
Humphrey, earl of Stafford, Cecily wanted to ply her sister with questions, but
Anne had returned from the civil ceremony in her father’s privy chamber and
snapped at her sister, “I am married, ’tis all, Cis. Nothing has changed. All I
know of him is that he is twenty-one and has been an earl since he was one.
I do not even know what he looks like.” To hide her bitterness, the older girl
had knelt down to fondle a little Italian greyhound.
The countess finished instructing Cecily in the intricacies of a blanket

stitch and, turning to Anne, asked her to demonstrate her progress on the
psaltery. Anne gladly relinquished her embroidery and ran across the room to
where one of Joan’s ladies was quietly plucking the instrument. Making certain
her mother was watching her, Anne pushed her floor-length sleeves out of
the way, steadied the boxlike instrument on her knees, and began to play. Joan
smiled encouragingly as Anne painstakingly struggled through the song.
Joan waited until her daughter was well along before nodding to her la-
dies to continue their quiet conversation and then turned back to Cecily. The
maternal gesture was not lost on Cecily, and she marveled at how her mother
made each one of her children feel special. And there are so many of us, Cec-
ily grinned to herself. ’Tis a miracle she even remembers all our names. I shall
have but two children, she decided then and there. A boy first, who will be a
big brother to my little girl—just like George and me.
“Are you listening to me, Cecily?” Joan’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She
blinked up at her mother. With a heart-shaped face and complexion of a pink-
tipped briar rose, a generous mouth, and a pair of blue eyes that could melt
the stoniest of hearts, it did not surprise Joan that the villagers in Staindrop
had begun calling Cecily their Rose of Raby. Ralph said his daughter’s eyes re-
minded him of cornflowers. Bishop Henry Beaufort, Joan’s brother, thought of
a jay’s feather. But Joan knew they were the color of her own father’s eyes—of
the sky above his beloved Aquitaine—and she smiled now as Cecily lowered
her head.
“Aye, my lady,” Cecily acquiesced sheepishly, “I am now.”
“Your father wishes me to talk to you of your future, of marriage, my dear,”
Joan began, and then sighed. All her daughters were either promised in mar-
riage already or were even in a second one, but that was what was expected
of girls of noble rank. Having been born a bastard, Joan had escaped early
wedlock and had been respectably married to a knight at the grand old age
of seventeen. But by the time he died, her royal father’s liaison with his mis-
tress, Katherine Swynford, had been solemnized in marriage and his Beaufort
bastards decreed legitimate. Then Joan was fit for an earl, and a year later she
was married to Ralph, widower of Margaret Stafford and already the father of
several children.
“Marriage?” Cecily repeated abruptly and searched her mother’s lined face.
“But I thought I must be twelve before I am married. Anne said . . .”
“Anne is quite right, Cecily. Twelve is the legal age for marriage, but you
can be promised at any age,” Joan told her.

“How old were you when you were betrothed, Mother? Older than eight,
I’ll be bound!” Cecily immediately regretted her outburst. The countess’s ex-
pression hardened, and she gave a quick look around the room to make sure
no one else had heard her daughter’s insolent remark.
“You forget yourself, Cecily,” Joan scolded quietly. “Your father may indulge
you, but it is left to me to teach you manners, and not even he will tolerate
disrespect, I assure you. Apologize at once and interrupt me no further.” She
chose not to inform her wayward daughter that in fact she had been twelve
when her father had given her in marriage to Sir Robert Ferrers.
A tear rolled down Cecily’s cheek, but she swiftly wiped it away and
whispered an apology. In moments like these, it was not hard to remember
that Joan was one of the children, surnamed Beaufort, of John of Gaunt
and thus half sister to King Henry the Fourth. As mistress of the one
hundred and fifty members of the Raby household, she was revered for her
royal blood and equally regal bearing, but it was the care and concern she
showed her servants that made them more devoted. Joan had learned this
from her mother, who had begun in Gaunt’s household as a servant—gov-
erness to his earlier children. Woe betide, however, anyone who forgot his
place at Raby; it was said Joan Beaufort could wither with a look as well
as her father ever had.
Seeing Cecily so contrite, Joan reached out and patted her hand. “There is
hope, Cecily. I do not think you will be displeased with your father’s choice,
and aye, you must wait until you are twelve before you are officially wed.”
Forgetting her dismay, Cecily’s curiosity was piqued enough for her to ask,
“Who is he, Mother?”
“A young man with whom you are already acquainted. And this young man
will make you, as his wife, the noblest lady in the kingdom—after her grace,
the King’s mother.” Joan’s eyes twinkled at Cecily’s open-mouthed stare. “Can
you guess?”
But eight-year-old Cecily was not yet well versed in England’s nobility,
other than understanding how grand her eldest sister, Katherine, was as duch-
ess of Norfolk. All she knew was that her mother and father were the king and
queen of her little world at Raby. She shook her head. “Nay, Mother, I cannot
guess.”
“His grace, the duke of York, Richard Plantagenet, your father’s ward,” Joan
told her triumphantly. “’Tis a high honor indeed, and one day you will outrank
us all, Cecily. Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”

Richard’s gray eyes, wiry body, and lopsided smile leaped into Cecily’s
mind, and she giggled. “But he’s not a man! He’s not a husband,” she said, put-
ting her hand over her mouth to hide her merriment. “He’s just a boy. How
can he be a duke? I thought dukes went off to France to fight.”
Joan had to laugh. At least the child was not upset. Joan had been elated by
Ralph’s plan to secure Richard’s marriage contract from the Crown along with
the wardship, and the king’s council had agreed. “As the others of my daugh-
ters are already pledged, Richard is the perfect match for my sweet Cecily,”
Ralph had told Joan. “There are only four years between them, and I do believe
they like each other already.” Joan had agreed and sent a prayer of thanks to St.
Monica for her intercession in this affair. “Richard will be with us for several
more years, ample time for them even to grow to love each other. They are
fortunate.”
“Is he not too young to be a duke?” Cecily was asking her now, and Joan
brought her focus back to her daughter. “What happened to his father?”
Joan explained that Richard’s father had rebelled against the late King
Harry just before Agincourt and the king had executed him for treason. “This
made our Richard earl of Cambridge. And, God is merciful, the king did not
attaint him with his father, because he was only a boy,” Joan said. “And when
Richard’s uncle, the childless duke of York, was killed a few weeks later at Ag-
incourt, Richard inherited that title too. Are you following me?”
Cecily nodded, though Joan had lost her at the execution of Richard’s fa-
ther. She understood that to have been executed by the king, the man must
have plotted against him. Her father had told her that the word for a person
who did that was “traitor.” And then the word “attainted” would be whispered
every time the traitor was mentioned. As yet, Cecily had not grasped the sig-
nificance of that second word, but as it sounded as though it meant rotten or
having a bad smell, she would wrinkle her nose every time she heard it. How
humiliating for poor Richard, she thought. ’Twas a wonder he could hold his
head high or even sleep at night, knowing his father had been such a bad man.
A new question occurred to Cecily. Sensing her mother was in a talkative
mood, she made bold to ask, “Does Richard know we are to be married? It will
make a difference how I speak to him the next time I see him, I suppose. Do I
call him ‘dearest lord,’ as you call Father?”
Joan smiled, wondering what else the little minx had observed about her
relationship with Ralph. “Nay, Cecily. You must truly be wedded and . . .” She
was about to say “bedded” when she remembered to whom she was speaking.

“And know your husband well before you may call him anything but my lord,
my lord husband, or even your grace, the last because Richard is a duke.”
“How silly!” Cecily exclaimed. “I cannot even call him by his first name? Or
as George does, Dickon?”
Joan sighed, suddenly weary of Cecily’s questions. Mercifully, Anne’s one-
tune repertoire had ended, and she was seeking Joan’s praise. Joan put her fin-
ger to Cecily’s lips and frowned a halt to the child’s inquisitiveness.
“That was well done, Anne,” Joan called across the room. “Do you not agree,
ladies?” And she led them all in polite applause.
“Your grace,” Cecily intoned solemnly, curtseying, when Richard ap-

proached her with his hand outstretched, asking for a dance. His straight
eyebrows shot up, almost disappearing into his fringe. Richard wore his dark-
chestnut hair in the old way, the way his first guardian, Sir Robert, did. It
looked as though a bowl had been placed on his head and all hair visible below
it had been shaved off. Cecily did not care for it and was glad to hear one of
her mother’s ladies say that it was unfashionable; she made up her mind that
as soon as they were married, she would demand that he grow it.
“Your grace?” Richard quizzed, taking her hand and leading her out onto
the floor for a carol dance. Several couples waiting for a full complement of
dancers stood in a circle, tapping their feet to the jaunty tune played by the
musicians in the gallery. “Why so formal? Have I done something to displease
you, Lady Cecily.”
Cecily tossed her head, happy that her heart-shaped headdress with its
scalloped veil had been anchored so well, and she tried to sound grown up.
“’Tis customary for a wife to call her husband ‘your grace’ if he be a duke,” she
said. “My lady mother told me so.”
Richard grinned. “But we are not yet married, Cis. I pray you, call me
Dickon like everyone else.”
“As you will,” Cecily answered merrily. “A pox on ‘your grace.’ ”
“I would not say that in front of your mother,” Richard teased. “’Tis not la-
dylike.” More earnestly, he added, “So you know the way of things between us.
What think you of the arrangement? I am well disposed to it. Are you?”
“Aye, I suppose I am. I like you, in truth. But it will not happen for a long,
long time, will it?” Now that she was face to face with him, the thought that
she would spend her whole life with this person suddenly alarmed her. Her
fingers trembled in his, and he squeezed them to give her courage.

“Aye, we shall not be wed for a long time to come, sweet Cecily. Never fear.”
Cecily, trying to show nonchalance, shrugged and lowered her eyes, as was
customary. “I am not afraid,” she murmured to her embroidered silk slippers,
and as if to prove it, she suddenly said, “I am sorry about your father.”
She felt Richard’s fingers tense for a second. His tone was icy as he told her,
“I do not remember him. He was a traitor to our great King Harry and thus
deserved to die.”
Cecily gasped. “But he was your father . . .” she trailed off, not understand-
ing this coldness. Surely everyone loves their parents, she thought.
They began to dance, Cecily’s dagged satin sleeves reaching the floor even
when her arms were lifted, and while Richard spent most of the carol try-
ing not to trip on them, Cecily avoided stepping on his long, pointed shoes.
He glanced at her from time to time, trying to imagine what she might look
like as a woman. She was taller than most boys of her age, not much smaller
than he was, but he knew he had many years of growing yet to do. He looked
forward to the time when his voice would deepen and he would be scraping
his face.
He thought she was pretty but in a childlike way. George had told him that
Katherine, the eldest, was the most beautiful of the sisters. “Eleanor is fair, too,
but short and plump—a bit like Mother,” he had whispered behind his hand.
Somewhere in the middle of the siblings was Joan, a novice at an abbey, who
had the unkind nickname Plain Jane. And then there was solemn Anne, who
unnerved him with her stares. In truth, Richard was contented with the choice
Lord Ralph had made, though Cecily was a little more forward a female than
he was used to.
Richard’s short, fur-trimmed tunic brushed Cecily’s swirling blue and white
skirts as they lightly touched hands to turn in a series of circles. Even though
Cecily’s eyes were firmly glued to the floor, as were the eyes of all the danc-
ing ladies, she sensed the spectators were watching them. Usually she would
have basked in the attention, but this time she found it disconcerting. She
wondered what life with Richard would bring her—a fine stable and splendid
wardrobe, she expected, and prayed she would not have to give up her beloved
hunting. But she also resolved to pay more heed to her mother’s daily routine
so that she would be ready to be a duchess when the time came.
“A penny for your thoughts, Cis,” Richard murmured, when a movement
allowed them a few words. “You are looking very serious.”
“I was just wondering what time Father was going hunting tomorrow, ’tis

all,” Cecily lied, hoping her hot cheeks were well hidden by her lowered head.
“He has promised I can go with you all to hunt the white hind Master Laid-
law claims runs with a herd at the foot of Cockfield Fell.”
“Aye, George and I are determined to be the ones to find it,” Richard en-
thused, “although Lord Ralph fears it is naught but a mystical beast dreamed up
by Laidlaw after too much wine. He seems to be the only one to have seen it.”
The hornpipe and tabor players ended the carol with a slow crescendo, and
the dancers saluted their partners with reverences as the last droned note of
the symphonie faded away. But before they were able to leave the floor, they
were caught up in a whirlwind of cartwheeling tumblers. They preceded a
troupe of mummers enthusiastically shaking bellsticks and shooing the com-
pany back to their benches to watch an enactment of the story of St. George
and the dragon.
Soon Cecily’s eyelids began to droop, and the ever-watchful Joan sent
the girls’ attendants to escort them up to bed. For once Cecily was too tired
to protest. She merely curtsied to her parents on the dais and then climbed
to her quarters at the top of the keep. The girls were shivering by the time
they reached the room, but a servant stoked the fire, and the red-and-green-
painted chamber was soon warm enough for them to be undressed and read-
ied for bed by Nurse Margery and Rowena Gower, a fourteen-year-old gently
born local girl.
“Will you hunt with us tomorrow, Nan?” Cecily asked, although she knew
full well what Anne would reply. “Dickon and George are determined to find
the white hind, but I hope Father finds it first—or me. I want to find it.”
Anne made a face and unpinned her long, mouse-brown hair. “How many
times must I tell you how much I dislike hunting, Cis? Besides, ’tis likely to
snow tomorrow, and I shall stay in where it is warm.”
Cecily sighed and climbed into bed, watching her sister put on her nightcap.
“Now, then, my ladies, go to sleep, and God give you a good night,” Mar-
gery said sternly as she drew the tester curtains around the bed, leaving the
sisters in the dark.
“How do you like Richard, Cis?” Anne whispered to the drowsy Cecily,
whose eyes then opened at the unaccustomed overture. “I confess I like him
very much, and I wish ’twas I he must wed.”
Cecily was now wide-eyed. “You do?” she exclaimed, and turned to her sis-
ter. “Why?”
“I think he is handsome, and he is a great deal richer than Humphrey,”

Anne answered. “If only Father had waited a few months before betrothing
me, then I might have been the daughter he chose for Richard.”
“Oh, Anne,” Cecily whispered, patting the shoulder that was turned from
her. “I am sorry for you if you are unhappy. How do you know that Humphrey
isn’t twice as handsome as Dickon? And he is a Stafford, after all, and he must
be rich, too.”
“Dickon likes me, I know he does,” came Anne’s petulant voice. “And be-
sides, he is the duke of York. Humphrey is but an earl.” She squeezed out a
tear and sniffed. “You are naught but a child to him.”
Irritated, Cecily withdrew her hand: “I am not a child! Besides, we have
already talked about being wed. He likes me, too, you know.”
“Aye, but, in truth, I think he loves me,” Anne replied miserably.
“Like? Love? What is the difference?” Cecily shrugged. “You are pledged,
you are wed, you have children, and you have a pleasant time together. What
more is there to marriage, pray?”
Anne could not suppress a giggle. “You are only eight, Cis, and not near to
being a woman, as I am. Love is when your heart aches for someone so much
that you think you will swoon. Love is when you want to be with him, when
you dream about him night and day. Can you not see?”
Cecily did not see, but she was not about to admit it. “I love Mother and
Father—and I love George—but I do not dream about them night and day,”
she reasoned. “Perhaps you are ailing and need a physic.” She was disconcerted
to hear another sniff and snuggled into Anne’s back. “What can I do, Nan?
We must both do what Father tells us—and you are already betrothed. We
cannot exchange husbands—or can we?”
“Oh, go to sleep. You just don’t understand,” the unhappy Anne complained,
leaving Cecily more puzzled than before.
Anne had been right about the weather. When the cock crowed the next
day and the pale Christmas sun crept over Keverstone Bank, it sparkled on
the light covering of snow that had turned the frozen, furrowed fields into a
completely new and tranquil landscape. After breaking their fast and attend-
ing Mass, the hunters hurried down the stairs from the different towers of the
castle and converged on the marshalsea, where horses and dogs were snorting
clouds of hot breath into the cold air.
Cecily loved days like this. It was as though God wanted to cover the drab-
ness of brown November by dazzling His people with an immaculate, magical

mantle in December. She was glad of her two pairs of stockings under her
warmest gown today, and she called for a groom to help her onto Tansy’s back
and keep her leather ankle boots from getting too wet. For once she was con-
tent to be riding sidesaddle along with the other ladies in the party, with her
heavy woolen gown tucked cozily around her legs. Her hooded, fur-lined cloak
warmed her upper body and head, so that when the group trotted through the
gatehouse and north toward Cockfield, she forgot about the frigid air and in-
stead reveled in the excitement of the hunt: the running hounds yelping in the
distance, picking up the scent of their prey, and the colorful cavalcade of riders
jostling for position to ride in hot pursuit.
George called to her from a courser in the midst of his fellow henchmen,
and she waved back gaily. Richard was there too, his chin jutting forward in
concentration as he kept his mount in check. Cecily knew that she would
have to hold back and ride like a lady today—a thought that chafed her—but
when her mother chose to ride beside her, Cecily’s heart sang. ’Twas an honor
indeed to hunt with the countess, she knew, and so she sat her horse proudly.
There were more than forty riders that day, and some of the fewterers were
having difficulty restraining their greyhound charges from slipping the leash.
When a horn sounded in the middle of the forest ahead, Earl Ralph gave a
whoop and a tally-ho and urged his horse into a fast canter. As she watched
all the males in the group follow suit, it was all Cecily could do not to dig her
heels into Tansy’s flanks and join them.
Joan eyed her with amusement. “Good girl, Cecily,” she said, taking a hand
from her fur muff, pushing a graying curl out of her eyes, and tucking it back
under her felt chaperon. “You must learn when you may let down your hair
and when you may not. ’Tis not easy being a lady, my dear, and I fear that you,
of all my daughters, may have the most trouble with it. Kat was ungovernable
when she was a child, but she grew out of it quickly. Your father, I am afraid,
encourages you.” She watched her husband’s saffron cloak float out behind
him as he entered the forest, and she smiled. “He is sixty-one, and yet still he
rides like a young knight,” she said half to herself. “He swears ’tis the fresh,
cold air of the north that keeps him healthy.” Seeing that Cecily was still lis-
tening, she added: “For my part, I prefer the warmer London air—though the
smell of that city can be more than unpleasant, in truth.”
“When shall I go to London, Mother?” Cecily asked, enjoying the unex-
pected intimacy with Joan. “I should dearly love to see London Bridge. Rob
told me that there are houses and shops on it. Is it true?”

“Aye, ’tis true. Your brother is a man of the cloth and so would not lie to
you, Cecily,” Joan told her. “You will go to London all in good time, but first
we must arrange your formal betrothal to York sometime in the summer be-
fore Anne goes away.”
Cecily gasped. “Anne going away? Where? Why? She did not tell me,” she
cried, slowing Tansy to a walk to keep pace with her mother’s plodding rouncy.
She forgot her disappointment in not riding with the men, for this news was
more important. Her life was about to change.
“I have explained to you before, child,” Joan said, a little testily. She was
tired these days, and after bearing thirteen children, she was eager to put
motherhood aside and enjoy her late middle age, knowing that each of her ten
surviving children was well provided for. “Young women of noble birth must
devote themselves to becoming wives, which oft-times means leaving their
own home and joining another great house. ’Tis where we learn to become
loyal to our husband’s family and devote our life to our children and support
our husband’s ambitions. And thus Nan will go to Brecon and be under the
protection of my cousin Anne, Humphrey’s widowed mother. I expect Nan
and Humphrey will be properly married inside the next two years.”
Cecily digested this and stared ahead in silence. Despite the awkwardness
between the sisters, Cecily drew comfort from having a sister close to her age
share in her daily routine. Her three other sisters were long gone: Katherine
to Framlingham Castle in Suffolk, seat of the Mowbrays, dukes of Norfolk;
Eleanor to Alnwick Castle, where her husband, Henry Percy, earl of North
umberland, guarded the northeastern border from the Scots; and Joan, still a
novice but soon to be veiled, to Barking Abbey near London. And now Nan
was to leave and be out of reach in the wilds of Wales.
“Dear Virgin Mary,” she prayed, “do not desert me too. Nan is not the best
of companions, but she is always here. Please stay with me when she goes.”
It then occurred to her that her turn would come one day, and her stomach
lurched. But another blast on a hunting horn, much closer now, banished her
morose thoughts, and the baying dogs told her that an animal was cornered.
This time she made up her mind not to be left behind, and before Joan
could command her to stay, Cecily had urged Tansy into a canter, and horse
and rider expertly wended their way through the woods toward the source of
the commotion.
Then, as she drew closer and slowed to a trot, her eye caught a movement to
her left. Every muscle in her body tensed.

“It could be robbers,” she thought, knowing that they were common in the
forests of lawless England.
She was just regretting striking out on her own when she gasped in wonder.
Slipping between two white birch trees and perfectly camouflaged against the
snow was an ethereal, almost mystical beast.
“The white deer,” Cecily whispered, transfixed.
Suddenly the hind saw her, and for a second the delicate creature and the
lovely girl stared at each other. Cecily held her breath. And then it was gone,
springing over the snowy ground and disappearing behind a copse of hazel.
Cecily exhaled in awe. Taught to believe in holy signs, she was convinced the
Virgin had visited her, and she crossed herself reverently.
“You will be with me always, will you not, Holy Mother,” she whispered. “I
know that now.” And so she vowed never to tell anyone about the hind. The
idea of such a gift from God being felled by hunters and dogs horrified her.
Kicking Tansy into a fast trot, she headed for the huntsmen and their
victim—an enormous stag, its summer-red fur turned winter gray, with a
magnificent rack of antlers that Cecily knew would join others on the walls
of Raby’s great hall. The skilled huntsmen were making short work of the still
warm animal, and after it was gutted, the dogs were given their grisly reward.
Cecily hated this part of the hunt and looked away from the glassy eyes and
lolling tongue as the stag’s lifeblood oozed onto the snow. She was aware of a
rider sidling close to her and recognized Richard’s voice—half boy, half man,
asking if she would like to leave the scene.
Cecily held her head high and shook it vigorously. “Nay, Dickon. One can-
not join in the hunt and then not stay to respect the death of such a noble
beast,” she said, quoting her father word for word. “I cannot help but feel sorry
for him, ’tis all,” she murmured. With a brave smile, she asked who had found
the stag’s heart with his arrow.
“It was your father, Cecily. He felled the stag with one shot.”
“And you and George? Did you loose your arrows?” Cecily inquired, one
eyebrow raised.
“Aye, both of us did—and missed by a bow’s length.” Richard grinned back.
“Master Beckwith will surely berate us for our lack of markmanship.”
By now the ladies had joined the group. Standing by the stag, Ralph
proudly lifted its head by the tines to show Joan.
“I won the day, my lady!” he cried. “We shall have venison to spare for the
Twelfth Night feast.” Joan smiled and waved, but she was cold and, calling to

Cecily to rejoin her, she and her ladies turned their horses and made their way
back through the trees to Raby.
“When we are wed, Dickon,” Cecily told him in confidence, “we shall have
our own hunts and shoot our own deer, shall we not? I would dearly love my
own hawk when I am bigger. Might it be possible?”
Her childlike earnestness touched Richard, and he leaned across his saddle
and kissed her quickly upon the cheek. “Certes, it might, Cis,” he said. “We
shall have a merry time together, I promise.”
Cecily’s heart sang. “Nan cannot be right,” she thought. “It seems he likes
me just as well as her.”
Though, if the truth were told, she did not feel the ache in her heart that
Anne had described, nor did she feel a bit like swooning—whatever that
meant. She shrugged, wheeled Tansy around, and trotted after her mother.
That night she dreamed she rode from Raby upon the white deer and, turn-
ing her head back to the square Bulmer Tower, she saw her father’s haggard
gray face gazing at her from its parapet, his heart shot through with an arrow.
The harsh northern winter turned finally into a breathtaking spring

complete with the native gentians carpeting the grassy limestone banks with
their vivid blue flowers. On Cecily’s ninth birthday, the third of May, Anne
was sent to her new family in Wales. Cecily was disappointed that Anne
would not see her betrothal to Richard, but the Stafford family was impatient
to welcome the young Neville bride.
Unable to stop herself crying, Cecily was puzzled by Anne’s calm demeanor
when she first made obeisance to her father and mother and then allowed her-
self to be embraced by both. Cecily was accustomed to Joan’s lack of emotion
and was not surprised by the countess’s stoic “God be with you on your journey,
Daughter.” But she could not understand how Anne could resist throwing her-
self into her father’s arms, as she would have done. Instead, her sister accepted
his gruff kiss and admonition to be a good girl and walked to her brothers for
their farewells. Something in Anne’s serenity prevented her usually rambunc-
tious siblings from teasing or hugging her. When she came to Richard, who
stood quietly at the end of the line, she lowered her eyes and blushed.
“Farewell, Anne,” Dickon said amiably. “I am certain Cecily will miss you.”
Anne lifted her head and pouted. “And you will not, Dickon?”
Richard was taken aback, though he nodded an affirmative. “Forgive me.
We shall all miss you. And I wish you all happiness with Humphrey Stafford.”

Anne sniffed, turned on her heel, and stalked toward her waiting escort.
This was too much for Cecily. Believing her sister had forgotten her, she ran
after Anne and caught her arm.
“Nan, do you have no words of farewell for me? You forgot about me!” she
cried, her tears wetting Anne’s hand as she lifted it to her cheek. “Will you at
least write to me when you get to Brecon? I promise I shall write back.”
Anne’s face softened for a moment, but, determined to show she was her
mother’s daughter and soon to be a countess, she gently pulled her hand away,
and kissed Cecily’s cheek lightly. “Aye, I promise I shall write, Cis. Now, I pray
you, stop crying like a baby. It is not the way a duchess behaves.”
Cecily stared in dismay as Anne left the hall, her brown velvet cloak billow-
ing behind her. Then, seeking the comfort of her father’s loving arms, she did
not see the wayward tear that trickled down her mother’s plump cheek.
Perhaps ’twas as well Nan would not be here to see my betrothal, Cecily
thought uncharitably. Why, her sour face might spoil the whole day.
It had taken a bevy of tiring women to dress Cecily for her first public oc-
casion. First they slipped a new shift of finest silk over her golden head and
tied it at the back of the neck. Then they helped her into an underdress of
crimson sarcenet and fastened it down her back, its tight sleeves coming to
a point over her wrists. When she had been measured for the gown, Cecily
had idly wondered when her breasts might start growing, and she was torn
between wanting to retain her boy’s riding garb and filling out a beautiful
gown. Now she wished she was already a grown woman as she admired the
exquisitely embroidered wide-sleeved houpeland draped like a coat over the
sarcenet and belted above the waist, causing the satin fabric to flow in an
avalanche of white around her lithe young body. The garnets that were sewn
in the center of the large embroidered roses mirrored the red underdress, thus
effecting a mingling of the white rose of York with the red and white Neville
colors.
Joan bustled in to supervise the last details. She presented her daughter
with a piece of her own jewelry: a heavy gold necklace from which hung a
sapphire the color of Cecily’s eyes. Joan’s gray eyes reflected her satisfaction
with her child’s appearance. She commanded one of the women to brush Cec-
ily’s yellow mane twenty more strokes before proclaiming it ready to receive
the simple coronet of white roses.
The women stood back in admiration, and Cecily grinned back at them.

Then she scrutinized her mother’s critical gaze. “Do I look like a duchess,
my lady?” she asked with a hint of concern, and then an urgent, “Mam, will I
do?”
“Aye, Daughter, you’ll do,” Joan said, breaking into a smile. “Richard of York
is a fortunate young man.” The women looked relieved. Adding their compli-
ments, they gave the gown a few last-minute adjustments and wished her well.
Rowena Gower had the honor of holding Cecily’s train as the women pro-
cessed carefully down the newel stair to the courtyard, where Ralph, the sun
shining on his white hair, waited patiently with his entourage. He was joking
with two of his squires. Standing a little apart, conversing with the Neville
brothers, Richard nervously fingered the jeweled hilt of his dagger. When
Cecily emerged from the shadow of the staircase, the men fell silent as one.
“Cecily?” Ralph mouthed in astonishment before he found his voice and
his legs and strode toward her. “Lady Cecily Neville, you do our house proud!”
he cried. Reaching out his arms, he would have crushed her to him had Joan
not stopped him with a warning, “My lord, the gown!” Ralph took Cecily’s
hands instead and held her at arm’s length to admire the transformation. Cec-
ily found herself uncharacteristically blushing as her father inspected her from
top to toe. “Magnificent!” he declared and called to Richard to come and claim
his betrothed. “Certes, the house of York has never seen a fairer addition, do
you not agree, your grace?” He presented Cecily to Richard and bowed. Cecily
curtsied to them both, smiling happily.
“In truth, my lord, none fairer.” Richard’s thirteen-year-old voice betrayed
him, breaking on the last syllable. Furious with himself, he colored.
Ralph chortled. “I have heard of a blushing bride, my dear wife, but never
a blushing bridegroom,” he said, as he took Joan’s arm and led the company
through the passageway to the outer bailey and the waiting litters. Joan
slapped his hand playfully.
“Hush, my lord, ’tis ordeal enough for the young people without your teasing
them,” she chided, and glancing back, gave Richard a smile of encouragement.
St. Gregory’s church was decorated to the rafters with bunches of the white
wildflowers of June tied with red and white ribbons: scented meadowsweet,
delicate cow parsley, dog daisies, yarrow, and Cecily’s namesake, sweet cicely.
In among these flowers of the Staindrop woods and hedgerows were white
roses, emblem of the house of York.
Those local gentry invited to witness the betrothal of Earl Ralph’s young-
est daughter and the duke of York were already kneeling on tapestry cushions

when the procession of chanting monks filed in. No one could deny that St.
Gregory’s was a substantial church for a small village, and this was due in part
to the patronage of the lords of Raby. Its round Norman arches led to aisles on
either side of the wide nave crowded with villagers eager for a glimpse of their
own Rose and her young duke. And today the monks, now installed in the
choir behind an elegant rood screen, were glad to offer their mellifluous voices
to celebrate the betrothal of their founder’s daughter. Indeed, the music made
the congregation’s long wait on its knees more bearable.
Finally the earl’s party could be heard approaching, and as the organist
began a reedy Introit, the congregation rose to its feet to greet the lord of
Raby. First to enter behind the tonsured brother carrying a large silver crucifix
were members of Ralph’s first family by Margaret Stafford, who now rested
beneath her painted alabaster tomb just inside the church door. They had rid-
den over earlier from Brancepeth, the seat of the Westmorlands, headed by
the heir to the earldom, Ralph’s nineteen-year-old grandson, who had lost his
father on campaign in France two years earlier.
Young Ralph’s self-importance was written all over his long, thin face as
his pale blue eyes scanned the crowd for friends and passed haughtily over the
awed yeomen of Staindrop. He was followed by his uncle, yet another Ralph,
and three of his seven aunts and their husbands.
But Robert alone represented Earl Ralph’s adult sons by Joan, and he now
passed through the portal into the church escorting his mother. The three
youngest boys, William, George, and Edward, marched down the nave behind
them, very aware of their new finery and enjoying admiring looks from the
members of the local gentry. Only one of Cecily’s sisters was able to be present
at this important family gathering. Eleanor, countess of Northumberland, had
traveled from Alnwick Castle close by the Scottish border with an impressive
escort and two of her children. Also missing was Ralph and Joan’s eldest son,
Richard Neville, who was occupied during these summer months as warden of
the West March of Scotland.
When the music stopped, an expectant hush silenced the whisperings as
heads swiveled to watch Richard walk slowly through the people and pass
under the chancel arch to the altar.
“Why not just get married?” one ruddy-faced villager asked his neighbor.
“It be what their ilk do, no mind the poor girl’s age.”
His friend nodded. “Aye, there be enough churchmen here to marry all of
us,” he said with a chuckle.

Two trumpeters, precariously poised on stools near the font, sounded a

fanfare for the entrance of the lord of Raby and the Lady Cecily. Murmurs
of approval rippled around the church as the radiant girl, clinging to Ralph’s
steadying arm, appeared on the threshold. She tried not to notice her father’s
effigy to her left as they began the long walk to join Richard. She knew it was
customary for people of rank to have their likeness made long before their
death, but when she saw her beloved father’s familiar face staring hollow-eyed
at the ceiling, it never failed to give her a shudder. Joan’s effigy lay on the other
side of him from Margaret Stafford. Cecily had always wondered what the
first wife would have said had she known that she was not going to lie alone
with Ralph for all eternity.
She dismissed this train of thought as she concentrated on not tripping
over her heavy gown before she reached Richard, who was waiting for her
with his pleasant face wreathed in a grin. Once again she liked the way his
smile reached his gray eyes and made them crinkle, and she smiled back, for-
getting the hundred people watching.
The ceremony of betrothal was so quick that it hardly seemed worth all the
fuss, Cecily thought, after it was over and Mass was being said. For the most
part, it was signing documents between Richard and her father, and in truth,
she need not have been there, except for the moment when Richard kissed her
on the lips in front of everyone. She had waited to swoon away, now that Ro-
wena had explained the word, but nothing had happened. Ah, well, she mused,
perhaps ’tis only ninnies like Anne who swoon.
But when they returned down the aisle and out into the sunshine, she knew
something very significant had occurred that day. She now truly belonged to
Richard, duke of York, and her life would be forever changed.

Want to continue reading Queen by Right?
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ALSO AVAILABLE QUEEN BY
BY ANNE RIGHT
EASTER SMITH On sale in May 2011
History remembers Cecily of
York standing on the steps of the
Market Cross at Ludlow, facing an
attacking army while holding the
hands of her two young sons.
Queen by Right reveals how she
came to step into her destiny,
beginning with her marriage to
Richard, duke of York, whom she
meets when she is nine and he is
thirteen. Raised together in her
father’s household, they become a
true love match and together face
personal tragedies, pivotal events
of history, and deadly political
intrigue. All of England knows that Richard has a clear claim to the
throne, and when King Henry VI becomes unfit to rule, Cecily must
put aside her hopes and fears and help her husband decide what is right
for their family and their country. Queen by Right marks Anne Easter
Smith’s greatest achievement, a book that every fan of sweeping,
exquisitely detailed historical fiction will devour. Click here to learn
more!
Visit AnneEasterSmith.com for exclusive photos,

and more, and be sure to “like” Anne on
Facebook for the latest news and updates.

QUEEN BY RIGHT by Anne Easter Smith - Read An Excerpt!

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A Rose for the Crown

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Anne Easter Smith

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Baynard’s Castle, London (Prologue) 1

Author’s Note 485

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A scream pierced Cecily’s dreamless sleep. She came awake in an instant as

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FROM A F IF TEENTH-CENT URY BA LLA D,

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Henry—affectionately dubbed Good King Harry by his subjects—would be

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Seated on a footstool near her mother, Cecily watched intently as Joan

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“Your grace,” Cecily intoned solemnly, curtseying, when Richard ap-

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The harsh northern winter turned finally into a breathtaking spring

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Two trumpeters, precariously poised on stools near the font, sounded a

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Visit AnneEasterSmith.com for exclusive photos,

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